


Ascension - Part II

by A_Thieving_Bird



Series: Ascension [2]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Older Man/Younger Woman, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-06 20:34:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16839940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Thieving_Bird/pseuds/A_Thieving_Bird
Summary: Months have passed since Lady Sansa Stark and Lord Petyr Baelish gave into long-denied passions and joined their bodies and minds. Circumstances have denied them the opportunity of meeting in an intimate capacity since...but when one is not given an opportunity, one must make an opportunity.This is not GoT canon but uses some quotes from the show, albeit a bit adjusted.Thanks and enjoy!





	Ascension - Part II

Two months passed, and winter was in full force.

Per Lord Baelish’s advice, Sansa started to suppress any sign of disdain for her half-brother king, and began gracing him with subtle flatteries, feigned sisterly affection, and strategic support for his eccentric long term plans for the land northward. It was at least a start towards something, even if unclear at this time. If and when Sansa ascended to the throne, noted Lord Baelish, a relationship in good standing with a deposed or deceased king would decrease any suspicions from the lords regarding a new noble being crowned. She was expertly crafting that environment, making moves and scheming mostly on her own, which endeared her to him as he saw his lessons take to her.

Her constant efforts in placating the brooding and suspicious Jon took up most of her hours, and Lord Baelish’s company in both an advisory and sensual capacity had been reduced to basically nothing. Agony compounded by agony...it was a true test of their resolve.

Despite the seemingly decreasing possibility of fulfilling their desires again, Lord Baelish and Sansa found their physical passions overwhelm them and occasionally break through during their restrained interactions. Their eyes would lock for a second or two longer than safety would prefer during suppers or high council meetings; fleeting solitary moments in dark hallways inspired him to wrap his slender fingers around her upper arm and gently grace the side of her breast before walking away; supervisory walks on the high breezeways inspirited her to lean her ear close to his whispering mouth, pretending to receive news while his herbed breath and scruffy cheek tickled her skin.

Two months of such encounters had created such an ache in their cores that they felt they would expose their affairs out of passion-fueled carelessness. 

That first morning of the third month proved especially agonizing for Lord Baelish. He had dreamed of Sansa the night prior, and had awoken at full mast with nothing to relieve his urges. He laid in his bed, curtains still drawn closed, for almost an hour; any stroke or twist of his own hand failed to rid his mind of the fact that it was not her hand on him, and he found himself unable to finish. His lower body felt as tight as a battle drum throughout the day, and he actively avoided the main hall and his advisory responsibilities in favor of the privacy of his chambers in a hopeless effort to avoid temptation.

His absence from the goings-on in the castle was sullenly noticed by Sansa. Without his presence, her mind and body felt more alone than ever. Conversations regarding Jon’s ruling were sporadically stalled by Sansa’s inattention, her eyes drifting over to the wall on which Lord Baelish so often leaned with his wiry shoulder. Her successful manipulations of Jon had proven fruitless that day, with her distracted comments often irking the brooding king. As the hours wore on, her lust-filled mind and body demanded Lord Baelish’s presence, and she made the rash decision to order his presence later that evening. It was an incredibly obvious move on their chessboard, but she had reached her breaking point.

The winter sun’s early setting, as usual, disrupted Lord Baelish’s sense of time and he failed to recognize any hunger for anything other than the one in his loins. As he walked across the room to wiggle in a piece of kindling to the fire in the corner of his room, a knock on his door clapped through the air.

“My Lord?” 

The voice was one of a woman, but old and gravely. His shoulders dropped in disappointment.

“Yes, come.” he sighed loudly.

The door opened to reveal Sansa’s servant, Gwendolyn, her aging face devoid of emotion. She stood for a moment, slightly stooped over, her simple mind seemingly delayed at bringing forth the message given to her likely just a minute ago.

“Yes? What is it?” asked Lord Baelish, frustratedly. He had little patience for most people, but hid it well unless it came to the serving class.

“My Lord, Lady Sansa would like you to know that your presence at dinner will be expected this evening.”

Lord Baelish tilted his head slightly and squinted his already tensed eyebrows.

“Oh. Why, yes. Yes of course. Please tell Lady Sansa that I would be pleased to attend as she demands.”

Gwendolyn nodded slowly and turned to leave.

“Yes my lord. Good evening.”

She shuffled away from the door and down the hall, thoughtlessly leaving his door open and allowing the heat from his fire to rush out into the hall. After walking across the floor and shutting the door, he leaned against it and looked upwards at the ceiling. The wavering red-tinted light of his fire on the rough wooden beams of the ceiling slowly drew his mind to Sansa’s auburn hair...auburn hair which had been puddled on his bed in what felt like ages ago. But he would see her tonight. At her demand. His shrewd mind weighed the possible outcomes of their upcoming interaction. His usually suspicious mind gave way to his anxious lust, however, and he decided that this was her created opportunity to enjoy each other’s bodies again. Only when it came to the Lady Sansa did he not follow his standard of assuming the worst possible motive for one’s actions. After a brief neatening of his appearance, Lord Baelish departed his room and made his way to the main hall.

Sansa, already seated next to Jon Snow, felt her eyes dilate as Lord Baelish quietly walked into the room. It was dark, and the striking difference between the blackened stone walls and his light greying hair stirred sparks in her core. Grey like the graceful feathers of a mockingbird; grey like the craggy stones in the Eyrie; grey like the centers of clouds before the fall of a misty mountain rain. Age was so rarely joined with beauty, but the greying of his features fit so perfectly with his personal journey that it seemed he had grown into his true self. 

Without ever meeting her eyes, he took his seat, then leaning left and right to speak insincere niceties to the men on either side. Servants quietly bustled at the edges and entries of the hall and began to place tankards on the long table, signalling that the dinner hour had arrived. As Jon spoke briefly of his gratefulness for those who prepared the meal and demanded all make a toast to the salt of the earth of the kingdom, Lord Baelish slowly raised his glass of spring water towards Sansa, finally locking eyes with her as he secretly cheered to her and nothing else with a twist of the side of his mouth.

At that moment, she knew he had interpreted her message appropriately. Despite the fact that her desire to see him in a more intimate capacity might soon be fulfilled, her mood darkened as she realized a meal of indeterminate length stretched before her. Lord Baelish had recently told her that she should fight every battle everywhere, always, in her mind...in this case, she was battling with her own lust to even complete the supper that would soon be laid before her.

During the particularly horrid northern meal of unspiced stew, Lord Baelish and Sansa gave into base urges and began to gaze into each other’s eyes across the table for extended periods of time. While the rest of the roughened attendees descended into quickly depleting bowls like hogs at the trough, Lord Baelish and Sansa piddled with their food, too distracted by each other. Jon was one of such roughened men, and with every hot spoonful entering his mouth, Sansa counted the ways in which she despised the man. Conversely, with every moment of eye contact between herself and Lord Baelish, she counted all of the ways she desired the man. Lord Baelish was thinking likewise, and occasionally perked up an eyebrow in an uncontrollable subconscious reaction to every physical allure she emanated. They needed only an opportunity to meet after the meal, but as they both knew from their political and social struggles over the years, sometimes one must make an opportunity.

When the servants started to take up the first emptied wooden bowls and tankards of ale, Sansa and Lord Baelish glanced at each other and, without words, decided to leave concurrently before Jon inevitably trapped everyone there for an hour or more with his rambling brooding. It was a risky move. Still, an ache-driven panic overwhelmed them both, and they walked quietly out of the great hall into the passageway leading to the west wing of the castle, several paces apart.

Lord Baelish’s departure occurred without incident, but Sansa was delayed by Gwendolyn, sweetly asking if she wanted hot lemon tea in her bedchamber as she had requested for the previous few nights. Sansa answered her with a serene no, and went about her way back down the hall. As her shoes patted along the cobblestones, she looked ahead to see emptiness...nothing...no one. Her stomach turned. 

While her mind tumbled into despair that their unspoken decision to meet had been lost to circumstance, a surprising outreach of a hand in her right periphery brought her back into the moment.

That hand grabbed her upper arm and jerked her into the hall’s common privy closet, and immediately slammed the door shut while pressing her to him, unknown, chest to chest. Despite the almost complete darkness within, she soon recognized Lord Baelish was the one who had drawn her in passionately as she felt his mockingbird pin press against her chest, his sigil seeming desperate to enter her heart. 

“My lady…” Lord Baelish whispered, voice rife with passion.

“Lord Baelish...” Sansa responded breathlessly.

He continued to speak with voice and speech still poised despite the tension, now holding her hand against his chest.

“You demanded my company this evening. I am here...I am at your disposal.”

“Yes.” muttered Sansa. “Oh, it has been so long...I don’t even clearly know what we wan-”

He interrupted, squeezing her hand harder to him.

“I know what I want. Every moment, every day, I pine for your company. Whatever games we play for power, whatever reality we aim to create, it all pales in comparison to the desire I have for you.”

Sansa inhaled deeply and furrowed her brow. She wanted him in so many ways, but with every word from his mouth and every breath into her immediate space, she felt him approaching a desire to be partnered in love. She grew impatient with his words, as each and every one created a barrier or time away from his body. He continued to speak.

“My lady...our moments alone, my whispers in your ear, our fleeting glances, all of those small things...they constantly inspire me to join with you again. I cannot assume your motives but I venture to say you want me als-”

“Yes…....Yes….Yes...Yes.”

Her affirmative whispers of interruption were followed by her lips crushing into his with the voracious hunger of a starving animal. The unadorned kiss proved such a relief that it almost hurt. 

His hand still clutching hers to his chest, he removed it to turn her around to back up against the left wall. As he raised his hands and braced them on the wall above her on either side, he pressed his already hard member against her supple mound, which was easily detectable even through layers of winter clothes. There was no time to be wasted. He began rolling his hips back and forth, rubbing his member against her body and resulting in a wet ache between her legs to which only he had been able to bring her. She, in turn, began pressing her womanhood against him without forethought. No words were spoken; only primal communication and movement let the other know what they desired next.

As Sansa and Lord Baelish’s nethers ground against the other through layers of wool and linen, their breathing quickened, conveying the need to meet by bare touch immediately. He reached down with one hand and unlaced his britches, allowing his member to escape its prison. Sansa shivered as his fingers intertwined with her own and led them down to meet his pulsating sword. Together, they began stroking him up and down, blind to the movement but achieving perfection in the same. The friction and pressure on his wettening member began to distract him from doing anything but receiving her touch, and he returned his hand to the wall above her to brace himself. As she began to stroke of her own volition, the world disappeared and he took in every movement she made at the most aching part of his body.

Flashes of blackness and blinding white alternated inside his closed eyes, and he found it increasingly difficult to stand straight up. He let his head drop to her shoulder, and he let out a gravelly groan as her stroking began to incorporate more of a surrounding grip. He instinctively began to roll his hips into her with each up and down of her hand. He was completely at her mercy.

Sansa’s body, with drenched erotic areas under both her hand and in between her own legs, demanded some sort of reciprocation. She nudged Lord Baelish’s face upwards to meet hers. Their faces once again found each other and they inhaled each others breaths with desperate energy. Mouths met, tongues flicked and swirled, and soon he began to release pitiful sounding groans into her mouth. The initial sparks of climax hinted at their arrival in his center, and he inhaled deeply to gain enough breath to let her know she was about to bring him to ecstasy. Before he could act on anything, Sansa’s smallest finger graced the front of his balls, and fire quickly burned up from his knees to his member. He was gracelessly confronted with the fact that he was reaching ecstasy.

A hurried and helplessly toned exclamation let Sansa know in no clear detail that he was finishing.

“My lady!”

He backed away from her quickly, resulting in her last firm stroke from the base to the tip of his member. It was enough to finish him immediately, and he swiveled his stance to his right to avoid making a mess of her clothes or hands.

“Unh!”

He exploded, his seed spurting forth unchecked from his body onto the wall of the privy closet time after time.

Sansa could not see him releasing, but still felt a part of it. She heard his grunting, she felt his prelusive juices slick on her hand, and she smelled the mint of his breath linger in the path he took turning away from her. Although invisible, his release was making her womanhood heat up to the level of a forest fire which could only be quenched by heavy rain. If she had been lustful for the man before, she was even more so now.

While Lord Baelish’s body and mind spun through the tangled feelings that one only feels after climax, Sansa’s involuntarily writhed in want of his touch. She felt she would scream out of frustration if she did not feel his hands, mouth, or anything else immediately, and she emitted a whine. She felt like a petulant child begging for lemon cake. Hence, as she had done before on their frantic journey from the prayer tree to his bedchamber, she found his hand and drew it to her breast. The supple mass beneath his hand helped untangle his mind, and he was reminded of his desire and duty to bring her to ecstasy.

With Sansa still backed up to the wall, Lord Baelish gently cupped her breast and began to knead it softly, ensuring that his thumb graced her pert nipple now pressing intensely against her bodice. He ached to feel her breasts bare in his hands, but knew that her side-laced bodice would prevent that. Instead, he pushed both upward and lowered his head to plant tiny kisses at the top, nestling his scruffy face in between them. He inhaled the scent of her skin and peeked his tongue between the fabric and her breast, tracing the hem of her bodice.

Sansa’s breasts began to ache and increase in sensitivity, subsequently radiating down to her center and causing her to become so lustful that she began grasping at her skirts to expose herself to him. Against his thighs, Lord Baelish felt her hand active at her own; the realization caused him to groan into her breasts before looking upwards to decide how to pleasure her womanhood in the close space to which they were regulated.

He dropped his slender hand down to the waist of her skirts and began grasping as well. Sansa arched her neck backwards and whimpered, completely primal in her surrender to her own lust. As they both failed to make adequate progress in removing their fabric barriers, she whined his name in desperation.

“Lord Baelish.”

He grasped the underside of her left knee and bent it up to wrap around his waist. Followed by the rustling up of her skirts and the sliding of his hand up the short leg of her underclothes, they were both graced with the sensation of his hand on her womanhood. Sansa arched her back and hissed inward as his fingers adjusted to the soaking area he so desired.

Sansa felt intoxicated, and grasped his shoulders with her hands to keep her balance. Lord Baelish’s hand felt so hot from her nethers that he felt he would be burned. With no delay and with unfailing sensuality he began to stroke her womanhood from her entrance to her button as she began to writhe her hips into his hand, begging for more. As he slipped two of his fingers inside of her as far as they could travel, his thumb pressed and circled her button in a continued and flawless pattern. Her mind began to spin as his curled fingers found a spot within her that she had not known existed. The pressure of his fingertips on this small area of nerves was somehow bringing pleasure to every feminine part of her body with delicate intensity, like gentle rumbles from a far-away thunderstorm. The foreign sensation paired with the stimulation on her button was causing her to lose control of her expression, and she started to release more audible moans as she approached climax.

Even in the panic that secret liaisons create, Lord Baelish’s hands never became clumsy or fumbling. It was one of the benefits of being with an older man. He knew not only how to showcase his sensual prowess and be powerful, but also how to nurture a woman and bow to her physical needs without becoming flustered. Sansa was receiving all sensual benefits of his age, and those were bringing her closer and closer to ecstasy. Her vocalizations started to increase in octave and she soon found herself grasping at her own mouth to stifle her wanton moans. 

Contractions in her nethers of increasing intensity preceded her climax and entranced even the experienced Lord Baelish. Despite only having his hand inside of her, he began to feel completely melded with her body. He reassured her reactions quietly in her ear as she began her final reeling from the touch of his hand.

“Oh...oh my lady.”

He felt his still-exposed member began to harden again and allowed his mind to revel in how joined their passions were.

“Ah!” 

Sansa choked down any vocal emanations of pleasure as her climax rolled through her, attempting to silence herself for her own protection. The restraint of her voice caused her body to bear the brunt of her ecstasy, and she thrust her hips forward to take his fingers all the way to his hand. Her entire body exploded into goosebumps as she writhed and trembled, her one standing leg barely maintaining the strength to keep her upright.

Her climax barely finished, she shakily uttered into the blackness.

“Oh, my lord.”

Lord Baelish was enraptured by her words, knowing she was almost thanking him based on her tone. His level of affection for her rivaled his level of his lust, and he longed for her to speak to him not as a mentor, not as a Lord, not as a sensual partner...but as a plain man.

“Oh, my lady, call me by my name.”

“Lord Baelish…” she whispered.

“No.” he said quietly but firmly. “Call me Petyr.”

Sansa paused, still quivering with each breath. She struggled to find the wherewithal to do what he was asking. With one word she brought him to an entirely personal level, and bonded him to her completely.

“Petyr…”

Lord Baelish’s mind snapped, and every bit of matter from his brain outward to his skin exploded in a raging lust.

Without any forethought, Lord Baelish grabbed the oft neglected area betwixt her rear and her thighs, lifted her up, and slammed her against the stone wall with adrenaline-fueled strength. As she hit the wall, he pressed his face into hers for an incredibly deep, moan-filled kiss. Their flushed bodies now demanded full contact as paths of ache shot like arrows from each inch of skin to the most secret parts of their bodies.

He began grinding his fully hardened member against her womanhood almost violently, only her moistened underclothes between them. The exhausted nerves at her center made his contact almost unbearable; she pressed her hips backwards against the wall, but soon was overtaken by her uncontrollable attraction for him. She began to grind back heartily.

With no clear or speedy way to remove her underclothes, he clawed at them like a child attempting to open a stubbornly wrapped present while struggling to keep her lifted with only one arm.

“Ugh...fuck.”

His lusty frustration was overwhelming his usual carefully crafted speech, and he growled in between expletives.

Sansa responded in no such words, but with a ruthless grasp of his greying hair. 

Lord Baelish dropped her on her feet and pulled down her underclothes angrily. She had no chance to even step out of them, and was soon lifted back up against the wall with them dangling from her pointed foot. He felt the heat from the outer folds of her ready cunny on his member, and rolled his hips backward to gain momentum for his first sheathing. Sansa desired nothing more than to be filled by both his flesh and his seed, and urged him to enter her immediately in a pleading whisper.

“Petyr...please…”

Again, the sound of his intimate name dancing off of her lips heightened his arousal to unknown levels, and he harshly plunged every inch of himself into her. Sansa gasped at the sensation of his entirety so suddenly filling her, which was met by Lord Baelish’s crying out in a simple, primal “oh.”

Straight away, he emptied himself inside of her.

Everything was beautiful. Everything was being fulfilled. What was once wicked was now pure. 

Immediate exhaustion took hold; Lord Baelish’s physical support of Sansa faltered so quickly that she was almost dropped to the floor like a bag of grain. After she gained her footing and shifted her underclothes back up around her hips, she found his face and cupped his cheek. Their lips met and grazed slowly, often devolving into them simply breathing into each others cheeks. 

Adrenaline from his taking of her began to dwindle, and he found his ability to speak to her. He touched his forehead to hers.

“My lady, what if I said that I loved you?”

Sansa stopped breathing and became silent.

Her shock was immense. Yes, they had joined on a completely pure physical level, and had plans for her to rule the kingdom with him at her side in some capacity, but the deep, romantic type of love he was discussing had not graced her heart. She had been through so much in the past few years, and had been so ungraced by opportunity to explore her heart, that she had not ventured to consider falling in love.

Too concerned was she with her ascension, and her physical passions, that she had not truly considered him in that depth of an emotional partnership.

She emitted a long exhale through pursed lips, gaining composure about a subject to which he was ignorant. She straightened her posture and lifted her head upwards, as if she was making an agreement with the gods, and spoke to him in a low and sullen tone.

“Here we must part, Lord Baelish.”

He was disheartened by the conclusion in progress and its seeming formality.

“Call me Petyr.” he whispered, leaning in for a kiss.

She failed to respond, instead leaning a firm hand against his chest to stall his approach.

“My lady, the picture in my mind of you and I-”

“It’s a pretty picture.” she said dourly.

Sansa slid out from under him and grasped the roughened metal ring to open the door. She paused for but a second and looked down the hall, just long enough to gauge the possibility of maintained secrecy and to let her eyes get used to the light of the torches. Before Lord Baelish could speak to her, she walked briskly down the hall.

He was left reeling, exposed, wanting, and nondominant. She had ordered him to her. She had led them to ecstasy. She had pushed him away. 

She had taken control on that frigid night.

Countless scenarios ran through his scheming mind, and he settled on the safest course of action for his own sake...to leave her be until she gave him explicit cause. It was an unfortunate conclusion he had also been faced with long ago with another woman, when his heart and body became scarred by unattainable passion.

He remained in the privy closet, arms still braced above him on the wall and member still outside of his britches. He stared downwards at the dirty stone floor, its poorly maintained surface now visible due to the door being cracked. As his mind began to settle, he resigned himself to the fact that his immediate actions would be simply walking to his bedchambers to spend the remainder of the evening. 

He slowly pushed himself upright and let his hands fall to his sides before exhaustedly lacing himself up. He uncharacteristically failed to take in his surroundings or make keen observances as he walked down the hall towards his chambers. He all but fell into a hard wooden chair after entering his room, letting his eyes wander blurry and aimless at the books, letters, raven scrolls and texts before him. As he put his hands to his face in an attempt to nurture sleep into his eyes, he smelled her on his fingers. Leaning his head backwards and sighing in frustration, he decided to not use the washbasin that evening. He knew that from this point forward he would have to concentrate on Sansa’s claim to the throne and not his love for her, so any sign of her on his body would have to be extended as long as possible.

He archived her sensualities in his mind. Her moans into his mouth, her scent on his hands, the feel of her wetness, the tightness of her womanhood, the firmness of her kisses, the warmth of her breasts, the sharpness of her fingernails on his neck...it was a set of imprints on his mind that surpassed even his most illustrious achievements in climbing the ladder.

Only now was it obvious that everything regarding Sansa was now immune to his schemes, plans, and aims. With a simple push to his chest, he knew she was completely in control of all that lay ahead, whether it be related to the throne or his heart.

Going forward, the mockingbird would perch on the wolf instead of flying ahead. He could only dream what he would see resting on her shoulder.


End file.
